The 3 Road Hazards of Laos

“Do you even know how to ride a bike?” 

Valid question. Before setting off for the Great Ride, I had a whopping 553 km of motorcycling experience to my name. We purchased the Shinerays last August in order to prep for the long road ahead, but between the World Expo and…the World Expo, I just didn’t get enough time on the bike to really feel at ease on two wheels. 

“But isn’t riding a motorcycle dangerous?”

In China, the phrase 肉包铁 (Rou Bao Tie) is a soft way of saying motorcycling can be hazardous to your health. The characters literally read “meat surround steel,” and its counterpart 铁包肉 (Tie Bao Rou) refers to a body inside metal (i.e. a car). The Chinese language has a way of getting to the point with very little subtlety. 

While I can’t claim a new career path just yet, I am happy to report that the last 3,000 km of trial by fire have markedly elevated my confidence on the bike. I have exactly three obstacles to thank for my progress, all of which perfectly capture the riding experience in Laos:

Road Hazard #1: Small Children

Did you just quietly whisper “Oh my God?” to yourself? Before you have visions of terrified schoolchildren diving out of my way, allow me to detail our first day in Laos. 

We arrived at the Chinese border check in the town of Mohan around 4pm. The sun was already starting to radiate that golden sheen on the road, faces and places looking warmer than their natural selves. Inside the freshly built checkpoint, a Chinese guard asked for my motorcycle registration and license. I kindly gave him my registration…and a smile. While he shook his head with disdain, it was February 2nd, Chinese New Year’s Eve. It was time to celebrate, not worry about laminated pieces of paper. 

On the Laos side, a decisively smaller shack sat beside a towering new pagoda. Still under construction, the golden structure will be the country’s new checkpoint. No one at the customs office knew when the pagoda would be finished. 

Hans and I both commented how friendly the border guards were at the stop, and it was a welcome change from some of the attitudes we had dealt with up north. We had broken some rules along the way, so can’t complain too much about Chinese cops, but the relaxed nature on the Laos side was a welcome change. As we filled out visa forms, the guards gave us a small info sheet with a few helpful Lao phrases written on the back. We practiced the first phrase over and over, much to the amusement of those around us. 

“Sabaidee.” Hello. 

With Laos freshly stamped on our passports, a new rush of adventure swept over us. Hans saw the winding roads ahead, and I immediately noticed the vibrant green rice fields that stretched across the twisting valleys. Something was different here. It was immediately apparent in the calm, humid air. 

The golden roads made a picturesque start to our Southeast Asia experience. Tightly hugging the mountainside, the bumps and winds of the broken pavement seemed to please the bikes, tired from the long straights of Chinese toll roads. 

We hit the sharp curve with ease, expecting few visible signs of humanity as we’d grown to expect from the previous kilometers. But around the bend, a village of stilted wood houses stretched along the roadway. Speaking across our microphoned helmets, Hans and my immediate reactions were the same – this was a far poorer country than where we had just come. The dusty wood village rising above still water seemed the very stereotype of the developing world. From a distance, you could see people moving about, but they seemed to have the slow pace of that same cliché.  The beauty of biking these roads is that you get close enough to discover you are wrong.

All along the road, running about wildly in front of those dusty buildings, were dozens of small children. Playing tag, splashing in the water, spinning old scooter tires with sticks, there was nothing slow about their playtime ethic.  And as we passed by, the simple phrase we struggled with at the border check rung from every one of their laughing faces.

“SABAIDEE!!!” They all waved furiously, greeting the newcomers to town. “SABAIDEE!!” The spinning scooter tires came to a stop for a split second as we passed by, then it was back to serious play. 

And it continued on that way, village after village, mile after mile. Every ten minutes or so, we’d pass another stilted town, and again, dozens of small children would greet us with absolute excitement, outstretched hands flapping wildly in the air. Most were somewhere between 6 and 12 years old, but even the smallest ones would still stretch their hands out and whisper a small hello. Not a few toddlers stumbled toward the street, their arms waving as awkwardly as their legs, and a mouth grinning sabaidee for the passersby.

Small children are road hazard number one for a new motorcyclist in Laos. Not because they dart into the streets or chase your bike as you pass by, but for something far more perilous. You have to lift your hand off the handlebars every time to wave back. I don’t want to be rude, but with another village every few miles, it’s just plain unsafe to constantly relax your grip on the roaring machine below you. The smiling grins and happy waves are infectious, an easy distraction for the inexperienced rider. 

Road Hazard #2: Potbelly Pigs

A second challenge of the Lao roads lies with the country's multitude of animal friends. While four-legged backpackers are the norm in Vang Vieng, keeled over and crawling after a day of river tubing and boozing, the rest of the country's roadways are littered with the non-human variety. Cows, pigs, goats, dogs, chickens and geese (two legs are dangerous too). Surprisingly, though, we've yet to see a donkey.

Wildlife hazards are common in any country, and thankfully the livestock around here do indeed move at that slow, countryside pace. Hans and I, however, believe that there is something far more sinister about two of the creatures here. The roadside assassins are cows and potbelly pigs. I prefer to call them by their Reservoir Dog names: Mr. Black & White and Mr. Hairy Grey. 

Next time you drive through a herd of Mr. Black & Whites, notice their eyes. They’re watching you. Scheming. Be thankful that you are in a car. Your Camry is a vehicular DMZ between you and your enemy. On a motorbike, though, “meat surrounded by meat” is a more appropriate Chinese idiom. 

The average brown cow is harmless enough. It watches with conviction, but moves slow enough for even 553km riders. They travel in packs, however, and their complete lack of direction means you are a mouse in a deadly beef maze.  The really scary ones are water buffaloes, calmly waiting with their slicked back hair and the black eyes of seasoned killers. The horns add a touch of menace, but it's the ones without knife-like headgear that you have to worry about. They know what it feels like to do battle. Having clearly lost, they're out for vengeance.

Still, Black & Whites are like an army of tanks – their size means you can plan an escape route from miles out. Potbelly pigs, on the other hand, are landmines. (I realize the poor word choice given this country's history, but allow me this one politically incorrect metaphor).

In village after village, cows and dogs make up the majority of creatures roaming the streets. An occasional chicken crosses the road, but always darts away as our engines close in. Potbelly pigs linger. Their wet, black skin shines like asphalt, stealth camouflage for the unsuspecting motorist. The little ones have awkwardly small legs like toddlers, and they too have come out to say sabaidee. 

Lao language lesson #2: sabaidee also means goodbye. 

Road Hazard #3: Oil Slicks

Finally, a legitimate concern. Laos is home to some of the world's greatest riding roads. Bikers from around the world lust at the thought of burning rubber in SE Asia. 553Km riders are usually too preoccupied with keeping their bikes upright to be burdened with the thought of actually enjoying the road.

In northern Laos, the road between Luang Prabang and Vang Vieng sees an almost 2km elevation change from start to finish. The steep climbs and heart-arresting drops can be exhilarating on two wheels. 18 wheels, however, prefer the flats. 

Old trucks leave several slippery substances on the road, thanks to a driver's constant foot-checking of the brakes. In China, most heavy trucks use drum brakes. You know this because on southern Yunnan's miles of highway downgrades, a thick steam billows from their tires. Drivers constantly spray water on the brakes to cool them down, leaving water trails on the road, but hopefully limiting the number of runaway 18-wheelers.

In Laos, there are no steamy tires. Drivers jam their foots, but there is no cooling the sweltering pads. The result is busted lines, with brake fluid coating the mountain curves. Problematic when you only have two wheels of traction. 

But if Mario Kart taught my generation anything, oil slicks are the real danger. Now I've yet to see a floating question mark box in Laos, so it wasn’t immediately obvious to me where all the black blots were coming from. 

Heading south to Vang Vieng, Hans and I rode towards Phou Bia, Laos' tallest mountain. We had seen some dramatic landscapes all day, but after climbing upward for several hours, the road opened to a sprawling valley with one massive peak towering in the middle. A model shoot quickly ensued, Hans and I taking turns snapping pictures posed with our bikes and the Agro Crag in the distance. Thoroughly pleased with our collection of new Facebook profile pics, we rode on, ready to hit the river tubing and four-legged walks of Vang Vieng.

With a day of mountain riding beneath my belt, the final turns to the city were coming with ease. I was supremely comfortable at that moment, effortlessly leaning the bike to the right as Phou Bia loomed in front. And without warning, without the squawks of playing children or the squeals of potbelly pigs, I hit the pavement.

The 450lb machine washed out from underneath, the handlebars grinding into the shiny black tarmac. My armor jacket skidded to a stop in an unbelievably short distance. I wasn't traveling very fast, and even before I stopped sliding, I knew I was alright. But at that same moment, through my helmet headset. I heard another crash, another set of handlebars grinding into the tarmac.

I lifted myself off the pavement, quickly checking my body over. Below, the bike sat sideways in the center of the lane. To my right, Hans checking himself over much the same. And to my bike's right, laying at the exact same angle with the exact same scratches, was Hans' bike. We had the exact same crash, exactly one second apart. 

In the center of the lane, a thick line of oil curved perfectly along the right turn. Beginning in the shade, the streak stretched as far as we could see down the road. There was no avoiding it, no spotting the non-glimmering oil in the non-sunlight, no time to slow down. There was only a low-side lay-down.

A few tourist buses cruised by, slowing only to rubberneck the scene before barreling on. One truck honked furiously and flashed its high beams as it rounded the wreckage. We lifted the bikes, wheeling them to the side of the road, Phou Bia still looking on. 

A few nervous laughs as we checked over our mostly unharmed rides. I broke my mirrors off, a set I had installed the day before after breaking the originals. Bad luck maybe. Hans scuffed up his knee, but it was only a superficial scratch. It was a low-speed tumble, but one that caught us off guard at the end of a long day of turns and twists.

It caught the Lao farmers off guard as well. Within minutes of the fall, ten children and men had come over to check out the commotion. The same nervous chuckles were all we had in common as our language skills had not come far since the border. 

Yet as we'd discovered in the first few minutes of our Laos excursion, this country has a way of putting you at ease. Friendly people instantly calm the nerves, and the small gang of boys jumping on my seat and revving the throttle made the oil-induced panic quickly subside. 

One of the farmers grabbed Hans' helmet, checking it over with absolute fascination. Today was one of the sunniest days yet and Hans had just switched over to a mirrored visor. He quickly put it on, and the resulting image looked like a Lao version of Halo. Coming soon to an Xbox near you. 

Our new posse checked us over and gave us the thumbs up. The Lao charm had worked, we were ready to roll again. Just a few miles to Vang Vieng and the tubes.

A thick line of oil curved perfectly around the next right turn. The line continued straight ahead, but suddenly ended the same way it started. In the shade, without warning, stood a man quickly checking over his wrecked ride.

The hole in the oil truck was not a superficial scratch.